Lady Blanche gives an interesting account of Liszt's sojourn at the
Monastery on Monte Mario in 1862, shortly after he became an abbe of the
Roman Catholic Church. After describing the scenery of the place she
says: "Here Liszt had taken up his abode, renting two bare white-walled
rooms for the summer, where he looked far more at home than among the
splendours of the prelate's reception room or the feminine elegancies of
the princess' boudoir. He seemed happier, too--more cheerful, and
light-hearted. He said he meant to be a hermit this summer, and the good
Dominican lay brother attended to all his creature comforts, while he
could solace himself by hearing the daily mass said in the early
morning in the little chapel, into which he could step at any moment.
His piano stood in one corner of his little cell, his writing table was
piled with books and music, and besides these there was nothing of
interest in the room. The window looked out upon one of the most
glorious views of the world. Here Liszt seemed quite another being. He
talked gaily, and suddenly started up, volunteering to play for us--a
thing, many of his best friends said, they had not known him do for
years.
"It was all his own, yet, though peculiar, the sound did not resemble
the sobbing music, the weird chords, his fingers had drawn forth from
the keys as he played among conventional people in conventional evening
gatherings. There was a freshness, a springiness, in to-day's
performance which suited the place and hour, and that visit to the
hermit-artist was indeed a fitting leave-taking for us who were so
entranced with his pure, strong genius. Still, the artist had not
forgotten to initiate us into one of the secrets of his simple retreat.
The Dominicans of some remote mountain convent had kindly sent him a
present of some wonderful liqueur--one of those impossible beverages
associated in one's mind with Hebe's golden cups of flowing nectar,
rather than with any commonplace drink. Liszt insisted upon our tasting
this: green Chartreuse was nothing to it and we scarcely did more than
taste. And this was the last time we saw him, this king-artist. It was a
great privilege, and perhaps he, of all living artists we had come
across, is the only one who could not disappoint one's ideal of him."